Emotions
by ScubaKanga
Summary: Ficlets all based on emotions. What separates a man from a robot is his ability to feel love, hate, compassion and fear, and all the different emotions. Not slash. I hate summaries.
1. Fear of Heights

NOT SO FEARLESS

None of the characters belong to me, et al. Enjoy!...

'Quick, Watson, we have little time left!' Sherlock Holmes cried, racing up the old stone steps. I followed suit, and we careered further and further upwards. Step after step after step. My leg ached and my lungs were bursting, but adrenaline from the dire situation kept me going.

After an age Holmes stopped so abruptly I almost ran straight into him. For some time neither of us had the breath to utter a word, and we leant against the wall, panting like dogs.

Finally, my companion gasped 'The time, Watson – w-what is – is the time?'

I glanced at my watch, but my reply was drowned out by a tremendous cacophony that rattled through the whole tall building. Immediately both of us placed our hands over our ears, though it barely made a difference. The thunderous giant of a bell boomed one…two…three…four…five times.

For a long time all I could hear was an immense ringing that rattled in my ears and left me deafened. I saw Holmes saying something, but all I caught was '…too late!'

'Too late, Holmes?'

'What was that?'

'What?'

'What?'

The ringing cleared. I asked 'What were you saying?'

'We are not too late! Who knew that bells could be so loud?' The detective shook his head with disapproval.

'We are inside the Big Ben Clock Tower,' I reasoned. He shot me a withering look.

'Are you just here to make things difficult, or shall you help and shall we continue? We have wasted more than enough time.' Without waiting for an answer, he continued up the seemingly endless steps.

However, this time we had barely gone anywhere at all before we pushed through a big wooden door and spilled out onto the other side expectantly. And then proceeded to stop with confusion.

The detective and I had found ourselves face-to-face with a rather ominous-looking and enormous grey bell. It hung imposingly in front of us, looking as if it thought it ruled the world. If this goes in the Strand Holmes will undoubtedly mock that last remark, but it felt like that to me.

To gain some space we edged around the cold metal of the huge bell. Then, to my surprise, I heard Holmes give a strangled yell of shock and he knelt down next to a pillar.

Now being able to see I observed with some astonishment a brilliant view of London, showing all the buildings for some miles.

'What happened?' I asked with bemusement. There was a long silence. 'Holmes?' I prompted.

The reply sounded as if it were forced out, quite unlike my partner's normally cool manner of speech. 'We are in Belfry 2, Watson. We… appear to have gone up one flight too far.'

Looking down at my kneeling companion, I saw his face was turned away and he was clinging to the pillar as if his life depended on it.

'Are you all right, old chap?'

His voice was slightly higher than normal and hard to hear. 'Did you know that Big Ben is 320 feet high?'

A cold draught blew in, making me shiver, but I was too preoccupied to care. Slowly and carefully I leant down so I was the same height as my friend. From this distance I could see he was clearly shaking, and I had the nagging feeling it wasn't due to the chill.

Worried, I put a hand on Holmes' shoulder, and widened my eyes when he jumped, still looking the other way. There was another silence as I considered what to say, when he took an alarmingly ragged breath and continued 'The clock was designed by Edward Beckett Denison. Each hour hand is 2.7 meters long and each minute hand is 4.2 meters long. The clock mechanism weighs 5 tons.'

I got the distinct feeling he was no longer talking to me and I felt a rising sense of concern as I listened to him recite facts about the building we had found ourselves in. What was wrong with my friend?

Looking around at the panoramic view of London, and down at the vertical drop hundreds of feet to the ground, and observing Holmes shaking and clinging to the pillar, I suddenly made the connection.

'How dense I am!' I cried out, 'Holmes, you're afraid of heights, aren't you?'

A bird squawked indignantly and rose as the minute hand of the clock moved. There was a long, stretched, lingering silence before the detective admitted, with his eyes closed and looking down, that he was.

'Well, then, come on away from the edge, you fool!' I exclaimed with abruptness. He looked at me with surprise. Then his eyes went cold again. 'I…I don't think I can.'

'Of course you can. First, stop looking that way, or no wonder you're scared. Yes, that's right, no, this way, towards me, that's right. Now, take my hand.'

'Watson, I can't! I really can't!'

'Yes you can.'

'No, I can't! What if I fall, what if I lose my balance, what if –'

'Stop blabbering nonsense and be a good fellow and take my hand.'

'Watson, I did it! I didn't fall!'

'How you became a detective..'

Sherlock Holmes, now far away the edge and his hidden fear, smiled one of his genuine smiles, and laughed. The minute hand below us juddered forward again and he set off as if nothing had happened.

'Quick, Watson, we have little time left!' Sherlock Holmes cried, racing through the door and down the steps.

It seems the world's first consulting detective wasn't as fearless as he appeared.

_Not good, I know, but I was writing fast because I'm meant to be doing homework for one of my last classes of Year 8! Nearly holidays! Yay!_


	2. Fear of the Unknown

FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN

I wandered down a lonely hallway, somewhat bored. Holmes had set off to the nearby village to make some enquiries, and I was left to my own devices in this eerie empty manor. For, some time, the library's stock of books had entertained me. But finding few books of interest, and with no-one to talk to, I resorted to wandering around the house morosely.

"_I wandered lonely as a cloud."_

The quotation meandered through my head and I smirked, knowing that my boring situation probably wasn't what Wordsworth had had in mind when writing that, but it seemed fitting anyway.

The hallway I was in had entrances to three similarly insipid rooms which had been explored and dismissed fairly quickly. In the corridor there was one small picture hanging on the wall of a leather shoe. Try as I might, it could not quite captivate me and cure me of my listlessness.

At the end of the passage a window without curtains revealed a stunning view of a field with a grim-looking cow that stood staring solemnly at the grass.

All in all, it was a mind-numbingly dull scene.

What happened next certainly wasn't.

As I contemplated going back to the library and seeing if I couldn't find something of interest in the book 'Highways and Byways of Sheffield' after all, I caught a glimpse of someone turning the corner at the end of the hallway. Just the tail of a white dress.

To have someone to talk to would be better than what I was currently doing (I had started feeling slightly ridiculous just standing in the corridor), and it was becoming rather cold all of a sudden, so I hastened to follow them round the corner. I reached the end of the passage, and turned, only to find the person gone.

And a dead end.

At that moment I knew something was horribly wrong, and the first threads of fear were stitched into my chest.

I froze, my mind a thunderstorm, ideas flashing by like lightning, only to be rained down upon by dozens of questions and arguments as I tried to come up with a logical explanation for this rather unexpected turn of events.

Where had the lady (I knew it was a woman, for I had seen a dress) gone? I had explored all the rooms on this level. Impossible that she had come up the stairs and escaped my attention. Who was she? The only women in this house were maids, who wore black dresses, and the lady of the house, who had been away for some weeks. Where had the person gone? Now I could come up with nothing.

Thinking over this tiny event, this fleeting glimpse that had my mind in turmoil, a feeling of horror set in, and I am ashamed to say my courage completely deserted me and I turned tail and fled down the stairs, desperate to get away from the now menacing passageway that seemed to hold something sinister and unexplained.

It was a sudden, incomprehensible feeling of panic, such as I had never felt before, and even when I reached the bottom floor of this threatening old house I found myself unable to shake it off.

Coincidentally, I reached the ground floor at precisely the same moment that my colleague, Sherlock Holmes, walked through the door. He looked around, spotted me, and said 'Ah, Watson! I have returned, and found a lot of vital information!'

When I did not reply he came closer and peered at me for a few seconds. He frowned, looking slightly worried. This was not surprising – I daresay I was white as a sheet.

'Watson,' he said, 'Whatever is the matter? You look as though you have just seen a ghost.'


	3. Love of Music

LOVE OF MUSIC

There's a piano playing. Softly, slowly, tentatively, a ripple of notes stream out, a tiny plea for emotion. As the piano starts to dream, the melancholy tune of a grieving violin weeps alongside the first instrument. It's a mournful, lonely duet, crying, lost.

Trapped in the coils of life, they sob. Delirium clouds the sky. Together, the piano and the violin struggle, each second more desperate and more hopeless than the last. They struggle upwards, clinging to stars like the tide clings to the shore.

The moon watches sadly. It begins to moan, a deep cello note accentuating the fever burning through the anguished, tormented strain.

The tune grows and grows, screaming for help, then stops. It gasps, trying to break past the peak, writhing helplessly for a few moments, then falls back in despair.

After a few subdued minutes of attempting to compose themselves in vain, the cello and violin come to an abashed halt. Quietly, they bid each other farewell, take a belated bow, and depart.

Only one instrument is left, slowly raining tears, note after note. It flows on, powerless in its sorrow. Yet the end, the curtains, are straining to close, so it sighs and shuts its eyes to the wretched world. There's no piano playing anymore.

'Holmes?'

Taking over, the penetrating silence deafens the world, a dark dusk for the frantic appeal that came and left, like everything on this planet. All things must come to an end.

'Err….Holmes.'

The deep, endless, eternal end, broken only by –

'Holmes!'

'Watson?'

-Exactly.

'You do realise the concert is over?'

I glance around nonchalantly at the fast-emptying theatre and the empty stage.

'How astute of you, Watson.'

'Well, I'm more perceptive than you've been for the past ten minutes.'

'Um… why the need for speed? There's no rush.'

'So you thought you'd just sit there instead of, ahem, rushing – also known as leaving – and do approximately nothing?'

'I was not doing nothing!'

'What were you doing then?'

'Not rushing.' Why did I say that so confidently?

'How astute of you, Holmes.'

I smirk slightly. 'Haven't we rather swapped roles here?'

Watson sighs loudly, and gets up, putting on his coat and, to all intents and purposes, leaving. He turns to me with the expression of a schoolmaster who has had to deal with an extremely tiresome student. I begin to feel a strange sense of déjà vu as he looks at me patronisingly.

'I don't have time for this, Holmes. Shall we leave?'

'There it is again! The rush!' Why am I saying these things? Can I just be a normal human being for once and leave the theatre? Evidently not. Hang on, why am I refusing to leave in the first place? I can't remember. Oh, this is futile. Wait, I'm saying something. This will be interesting.

'I believe I could live in this seat. And it's red. I like red. It's the colour of…err…of…blood!' Did I just say blood? _Blood? _I do worry sometimes.

'I guess it's just me then,' says Watson, 'Goodbye, Holmes. I'll come and visit.' He proceeds to disappear out the exit.

'Wait for me!'

'Oh, so you _are _coming after all?' Hmm. What to say. I don't trust myself to say anything sane any more. Long silence. Interesting. Watson is fiddling with a bit of paper. I see he has been betting again, possibly on me. Gosh, quite a lot of money. I hope I won that one.

'Do you realise everything comes to an end?' Oh, there I go, talking again, against my will. Watson looks at me doubtfully.

'You worry me, Holmes.'

'Everything! Every single little molecule on this whole – '

'Holmes?'

'Yes?'

'Do be quiet.'

'I'll be quiet as the – ooh, look, it's a musician coming down the street! Look at his hands, he must play the flute. And I won't get started on his shirt sleeves… '

How curious. Watson is walking away.

_-I know, these chapters are getting shorter! But I'm really busy at the minute, at least in the summer I can concentrate. Thanks for reviews, it is awesome getting them. First time I got one I randomly said to a friend the next day 'They liked it!' followed by a rather alarming manic laugh. That's just me. OK, you can start backing away now._


	4. Fleeting Love

FLEETING LOVE

Tuesday, that was the day I saw her. A blazing Tuesday in dusty Afghanistan, at around three in the afternoon. They talk about love at first sight, but what if first sight is all you get?

It was the sort of heat that seeped into you, trickling into all the tents and leaving you uncomfortably sweaty. As it was a relatively calm afternoon (rare, in this country ravaged by war), the majority of soldiers had retired to their tents in search of shade – except the person sharing my tent, who was something of an obsessive worker - though it was soon found it made little difference.

Such was my case. I was lying flat on my back in the tent, willing a breeze to come my way, in vain. Closing my eyes, I savoured the unusual peace and tried to ignore the fact that my shirt was sticking to me as if it were a new skin.

I wondered if I dared to try and read a book. The last three times I had tried to settle down I had been ordered to attend to some man's sunburn. This made me wish I wasn't a doctor at all – the others had been left alone to their own devices, but I had to be stirred repeatedly. Jolly unfair.

This insufferable swelter was putting me in a fairly undesirable mood. Over the last thirty minutes, I had been called out of my tent three more times, found out that my book was nowhere to be seen, and covered my shirt sleeve with ink after my faulty pen decided to explode.

All this considered, one could imagine my temperament when I was called out yet again (where there _no _other doctors?) and was redirected to another tent.

I flopped into the tent with a rather tragic groan and a somewhat aggravated cry of "How can I _help? _I am a _doctor"_, and found myself staring at one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

She had long black hair that was tied up neatly in a bun, and deep blue eyes framed with dark lashes that stared at me solemnly for a second. She was around my age and had an look of delicacy about her. I was so busy gaping like a fish at this angel who had appeared out the blue, I almost missed her saying, looking down quickly "Are you Sergeant Watson? This man has a serious fever. Sunstroke."

Slowly, I followed her gaze and for the first time noticed the soldier struggling weakly on the ground, who was none other than the man who shared my tent, Daniel Gladstone . His face was red and he was muttering agitatedly about his daughter.

"Alice, my child, don't go, don't go, not now, Alice, Alice…"

I stared at the man blankly, feeling strangely confused and at a loss as to what to do. I was also very aware of the nurse looking my way.

"Sergeant, what do you suggest we do?"

I forced my sluggish mind to concentrate and snapped into action rather suddenly. "What have you done so far?"

"Oh, um…" began the nurse nervously, "I've removed the outer layer of his clothes and I'm trying to fan him now." She wrung her hands and then added "That was the right thing to do, wasn't it?'

"Oh, yes, don't worry," I said, avoiding looking at her now I was focused, "But we need water, and a cloth – a clean cloth. I know we're trying to save water, but this is urgent. Err, could you do that?' I was suddenly and irrationally worried that I had spoken too harshly, though I had just asked for a cloth and water. She stared at me like I'd asked if she'd go to the moon, then hurried off.

Turning to the feverish man, I elevated his feet slightly and ripped off his shirt, perhaps slightly more energetically than was necessary. I took his pulse, which thankfully was slowing down gradually. As I was doing this the striking nurse came back with a small bucket of water and a piece of fabric.

"Ah, thank you, thank you," I exclaimed emphatically, "Good. Now wet the cloth and wipe this man's forehead. We need to stimulate the sweating."

She did as I said with remarkable speed, looking at me with something of the air with which one would look upon discovering Her Majesty in their linen cupboard. I felt myself turning a dark shade of scarlet.

My hands slipped from sweat as I picked up a cup and took some of the water, attempting to pour it into the man's mouth as he moved in a state of confusion, endeavouring to get up with some comment of "I need to check the bank…"

"Shh… lie down, it's been sorted out," I said gently, emptying the cup in his parched mouth. As I lifted it, my hand brushed the one of the nurse, who was dabbing the fabric on his face.

We both stopped very abruptly, looking in quite different directions. We must have seemed like we were playing statues. There was a peculiar, inexplicable sensation in the tent. As if the air were too heavy to breathe. For some seconds I almost believed time had stopped, if it were not for the fact our patient was still moaning as his fever came down to a juddering, lingering end.

When he stopped, like his silence was a wake-up call I said, rather brusquely, "Well, he's… he's fine now. Just… just keep him cool."

We turned round and faced each other at the same time. She regarded me for a long, enchanting moment and then said quietly, "Yes, yes. I'll, um, I'll do that. Thank you, Sergeant."

"Well, I'd… better go now."

"Yes."

"You'll be fine from here?"

"Yes, I'll be fine."

I reached the exit of the tent and then stopped, saying almost without thinking "What was your name?"

She opened her mouth, but was interrupted by a cry from outside.

"Sergeant! Another sunburn. Sergeant Watson! Ah, there you are. Come along now, stop dawdling."

I never saw her again, but I never forgot her either.

-_I know, no Holmes in this one. Thanks for the reviews, without which I'd probably have given up on this story long ago. Summer holidays now, so I can concentrate. I was clearing out stuff today, and I now have a new carpet for my room made of random bits of paper that I had no idea I had._

_I'm not sure how this chapter went because I've never written romance before, and I was finding it hard to concentrate. I had developed the habit of writing 'you' instead of 'she' or 'her.' When I had done this 5 times I decided to stop playing rock music. _


	5. Frustration with Life

'Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man,' quoted my brother, ambling into the bedroom (to my dismay).

'Oh, do be quiet, Sherlock. Must you stay here? Surely it is too dull for a lunatic,' I groaned. Now my irritating and eternally inquisitive sibling had come, any hopes of peace and quiet had quietly and without fuss fled through the window.

Obviously, my complaints went unheeded, and Sherlock started wandering around the room, fiddling with my belongings and leaving them strewn carelessly across the nearest surface.

'Isn't it unbearable to think,' he said, 'that the majority of people have roughly the same lives? They all follow the same format. Grow up, get reasonable living quarters, get a reasonable job, find a reasonable partner to marry, and die having lived a completely unmemorable life.'

'Is that so bad?'

'It is!' he said, alarmingly vehement, 'It's horrible. I don't want to have a life that will pass by and be forgotten, but I know I most likely will. I hate it, Mycroft, I really do!'

He continued pacing around restlessly, flinging open drawers and boxes I had never had the care to open all the time I had been there. No point, in my opinion.

'I rather think you are over-exaggerating, Sherlock. There are plenty of different lives. One could hardly call the lives of a lord and lady similar to that of a soldier.'

My brother paused, then, to my annoyance, took a pen and various other objects from my desk and knelt down to begin unpicking the lock of a big chest in the corner.

'No, that is true,' he admitted, 'But then, how is the life of the lord and lady different to the lives of a hundred other lords and ladies, and the life of the soldier different to the lives of a thousand other soldiers? How do you have a completely unique life? I could, of course,' he added suddenly as a thought occurred to him, 'become a criminal. It would make, I think, a thoroughly interesting life.'

From inside the chest came a peculiar clunk. Sherlock looked through the keyhole expectantly. He looked rather ridiculous, and rather like a thief as well.

'You're not serious!' I exclaimed, 'A criminal! What a preposterous idea! Interesting does not have to mean dangerous, Sherlock.'

'Oh, I don't know, Mycroft. I think it would be quite thrilling, far more exciting than being a respectable gentleman. I daresay I could think of a crime so complex it would baffle Scotland Yard's finest inspectors.'

'Oh, please do not become a criminal. It would be so tiresome to come and repeatedly bail you out of gaol – not that I would. Besides, I could work out any crime you could think of.'

'I don't believe that.'

'Well, you should. If you commit a crime, I shall have no qualms in leading the police right to you. Don't worry though, you'll probably have a reasonable life. I shouldn't think about the future, anyway. You're only ten – you should go and climb a tree or whatever it is ten year olds do, not recite Shakespeare and consider crime.'

'Ah! Here we go!'

The large chest Sherlock had been attacking gave another resounding clunk, and he wrenched open the lid. To my amusement and slight exasperation, a cloud of dust billowed up in his face and on his clothes.

'Oh, Sherlock! What will Father say? You know he does hate you continually getting your clothes covered in dirt and dust.'

However, he evidently hadn't been listening to a word I was saying, and proceeded to take out of the chest an old violin and bow, to my surprise. Immediately after, however, I became annoyed that my brother had managed to surprise me, and became nonchalant once more.

He blew some more dust off it, examined it curiously, then without a word of warning disappeared out the door and into his bedroom.

A few minutes later the sound of a horribly out of tune violin screeching and screaming like a banshee floated through the air. I groaned and put a cushion over my head in despair. If my brother had taken it into his head to teach himself the violin (which was very likely) with a violin desperately in need of tuning, all the occupants of the house were going to have headaches before very long.

Soon enough, though, came heavy footsteps coming up the staircase, and a deep voice yelled from outside in the corridor, '_Sherlock Holmes, what in the name of all that's good do you think you are doing, and more to the point, why have you got a violin?'_

_Shorter one this time. Thanks again for all the reviews, which are really helping. This oneshot was written quite impulsively because I give this speech a lot. Felt I needed to get it out somehow. Now, my friends have discovered my fanfiction page (horror of horror). Oh, great. Well, anyway, I thought I might not do two chapters on each emotion to get through more emotions quicker. Opinions please?_


	6. Anger Holmes Has a Bad Day

ANGER – HOLMES HAS A BAD DAY

Even before Holmes entered the room I could tell he was in a bad mood. I had heard him slam the front door and stomp loudly up the stairs. This would not be a peaceful evening, I decided, for Holmes, when he was in a sour mood, sunk ten times lower than anyone else I knew. Keeping this in mind, I braced myself for the storm that was Sherlock Holmes.

Sure enough, he soon thundered through the door like an angry bull, wearing something of the expression Hamlet must have worn upon finding out who murdered his father. Holmes had no coat or waistcoat on, his shirt was slightly blackened, and he was completely sodden. He gave me a cursory glance (if that, for he did not appear to see me at all), and without a word stalked darkly into his bedroom and shut the door.

I hoped that would be it as far as I was concerned. Perhaps he would just sulk in his room for some time, and come down to breakfast tomorrow morning in good spirits again. I suppose it was wrong of me, but I vaguely he wouldn't appear again. This evening I was in an odd mood, and I just knew I would do something stupid like ask him what was wrong if he came out again.

However, today it seemed his method was not to simmer quietly away alone, but to distract himself. The detective came out with several vials and tubes with ominous-looking liquids, and wandered over to the chemistry set. I was worried this would end in another permanent stain on the carpet – the latest addition looked curiously like blood and alarmed several visitors into thinking some brutal murder had just taken place.

Inevitably, I eventually asked, against my own will and instinct to give him space, 'Had a bad day, Holmes?' and immediately regretted it. He finished setting the vials down and then sighed, aiming a long-suffering look at the world in general. He then followed this up with a sort of irritated bark of laughter (if that is possible).

'Well, let's see, shall we?' he began, sounding a mixture of angry and weary, 'Due to our neighbour's new obsession with the bagpipes, it's been difficult to sleep, but last night I finally got to sleep, only to be woken at two in the morning by Gladstone somehow knocking over a wonky table – in his sleep. I was now wide awake so going back to bed was not an option. I tried playing the violin but one of the strings had broken and the rest were out of tune, and they'll cost forever to repair. Shooting practise was out of the question because I had run out of ammunition.

'Instead, I got dressed and went for a walk, only to discover I had locked myself out and had to wake an irate Mrs Hudson to get back in – how you slept through all this is beyond me. For the next few hours I was in the sitting-room, as bored as Michelangelo being given a painting lesson. At nine, a telegram arrived from Lestrade telling me there was an interesting case.

'On the way to Scotland Yard a boy attempted to pickpocket me as I alighted from the carriage. When I arrived at Scotland Yard I discovered the bumbling buffoons had got themselves worked up over a case of the utmost simplicity that I solved within ten minutes. I left after explaining it to them slowly, for it took them forever to understand.

'Outside, I was just about to get on another carriage when a group of mad old ladies set upon me from nowhere – they all somehow recognised me. For over half an hour they forced me to amaze them with simple deductions, then they began to explain their little mysteries of lost cats and scarves and whatnot. They all begged me to help them. One old bat latched onto me and dragged me down numerous streets to her house, insisting she invited me to tea – at ten in the morning! As she was in the kitchen of her house, I escaped out of the window and managed to land directly in a huge puddle, for it had abruptly begun raining heavily.

'I walked around for some time, getting considerably wet, looking for a cab, which seemed strangely evasive in this area. When I eventually spotted one I found that I did not have enough money to reach Baker Street, so I asked the driver to take me to a point that I could walk from. However, the driver was very deaf and it eventually became clear he was taking me in the opposite direction than the one I had intended. Leaving some money on the seat, I jumped off the cab and let it continue without me. Trying to regain my balance, I stumbled accidentally into a street performer who just happened to be a snake dancer. The snake was on the point of digging its fangs into my neck when the charmer got it under control.

'Disconcerted, I wandered into a dark alley, the slightly eerie type that feels disconnected from any bustle nearby. As I was wondering how to get back to Baker Street from the other side of London, wet and now penniless, a group of shifty-looking thugs advanced towards me. They had mistaken me for a drug dealer that they were meant to meet at the time. Not wanting to discover if they realised I was just a passer-by, I agreed that I was the drug dealer and suggested we go somewhere else before we dealt. I was trying to bide time.

'They took me to the opium den, then, to my irritation, borrowed an empty room upstairs and locked the door. They were at ease. They lit cigarettes, drank heavily and conversed. Or to be more exact, exchanged words consisting of phrases like "This'll be a riot, wonnit? Like that last one what we did, eh?" and "You remember that bloke what we beat up like?" Picture it: I was in a locked room upstairs with thugs that expected me to give them drugs any minute. The only furniture was some chairs. I had a gun with no bullets. One had finished his bottle of cheap wine and the bottle and cork lay on the floor.

'In sudden desperation I picked the objects up and swung the bottle at the nearest brute's head. He fell to the floor, dazed and hardly conscious. The other two furiously headed en route for me and I threw my coat over them. As they scrabbled to get it off, I quickly loaded the gun with the cork (I don't know how – it shouldn't have fitted) and shot the lock. I was weak and a kick brought the door down. I bolted down the stairs and hid myself in the smoky opium den and waited for the thugs to pass.

'As they raced out of the door I sat back to get my breath. Suddenly, someone tapped me on the shoulder. A shrunken old man was offering me opium. I refused, and he abruptly became quite angry. He started yelling in a foreign language – Vietnamese, I believe – and jabbing the opium pipe at me. Everyone turned around to see what the fuss was about. As I made to get up, the man, in a fit of fury, threw the contents of a bottle of whisky over me.

'I left hurriedly, going down several streets until I found I was near the Thames. I had missed breakfast and lunch, had no coat on and no money, and was dripping with whisky. My shirt was going stiff. I knew the next step was to produce some money. The only thing I could think of was performing on the street. I found a music shop belonging to a man in my debt after I saved his life, and enquired whether I might borrow a violin. He agreed instantly, and I left, grabbing some high-class gentleman's hat on the way for somewhere to put money.

'I played for perhaps an hour, moving from place to place, until I was down the street from the Thames. I got quite some money, and was ending a piece when who should appear but Lestrade. Whilst I tried to explain my situation, he offered me a cigarette. He fumbled with the lighter and the flame caught my sleeve, still stiff with whisky. To my dismay I began swiftly catching fire. At the same moment the gentleman who's hat I had purloined (for a good cause, mind) spotted me and started coming closer. In the space of around two seconds I had handed Lestrade the violin, put the money earned in my pocket, and flung off my now cheerfully burning waistcoat. I barrelled down the street and leapt into the Thames.

'As I swam along, searching for a place to clamber out, I could hear yells and screams. I emerged, and found that the street on which I had been playing had rather inconveniently caught fire. It appeared the waistcoat had landed on a wooden porch, and it had all escalated from there.

'I decided this was as good a time as any to make my exit, and as the angry gentleman was now worryingly talking with Lestrade, and it would be a good idea to avoid them, I jumped back into the river, swam further down an d found a place to climb out. I caught a carriage, handed the driver some wet money, and asked for Baker Street.

'So to conclude, it has been a relatively bad day. It's probably best that I avoid the opium den, the fuming gentleman and Lestrade for a considerable while. And the old lady. The music shop too, I suppose, because I don't know what became of the violin.'

I knew I should never have asked.


	7. Relief

RELIEF

I am dying, and I am glad. I am glad because, oh, how I loathe this world. This world wearing the fake smile and deceiving hand. I am the unwanted burden on this Earth, and the world has truly conspired against me. But I don't have time to feel lonely. Never have I been self-pitying, for it's weak and cowardly. I hate weakness.

Yes, I'm dying and I am relieved, because it means my life can spiral no further downhill. Life has toyed with me like a cat toys with a mouse, taunting, tormenting, and the mouse despairing. Never is a man more out of control than when it comes to his own life. His hands are tied, and he cannot alter the course.

It's a little-known fact, but I was a detective once. Not a bad one either. That part of me is so far behind it's nothing more than a black and white memory confined to the cobwebs of my mind. Yet it is still there. Yes, that was when I was young, and believed nothing could go wrong. Naïve and trusting. Everyone was certain I was going to be a success – sparkling career, plenty of time to start a family and build up fame and fortune. It was a future studded with stars. Now those stars are broken and bleeding.

Never. It was never meant to be like this. I never deserved this. Damn it, life, _what have you done to me? Why am I cursed? _It's stupid, stupid, STUPID! The injustice is suffocating. I just want to stand and scream at the world, at fate. Scream and shout and curse. Scream until I run out of voice and the sky has turned black. Scream until it rains shattered stars, the remnants of my soul. Scream until a lightning bolt splits the moon.

I was framed for murder. _Murder. _And I was, what, twenty-six? Perfectly innocent and with absolutely no motive, yet I got accused. Every piece of evidence pointed to me. Before I knew what was happening all my dreams had been stripped away and not a single person believed me when I told them the truth. Maddening, it was.

Escaping into the hushed criminal network of London, the dark alleys, strange pubs and empty warehouses, I found I had to take a new route. The trustworthy bridge had collapsed and the only way was down the jagged rock face. I was inevitably going further down than I could ever have supposed.

The in-between after that realisation and it becoming reality is blurred and faded. But the fact is, I became a criminal. In an attempt to forget what could have been, I plunged into the dark and dangerous world of crime. Robbery, dealing, everything. Even murder would eventually be added to my list of corruptions. The naïve me was gone. After all, the public expected me to be a criminal. Why not satisfy them?

I hated this life, yet I revelled in it. Like a drug, I depended on it. I had to be feared constantly, I had to make a stand. In some ways it was revenge for the cruel card destiny played that caused all this. But who this revenge and resent was directed at I didn't know.

One thing was absolutely certain. I would _not _have a breakdown, I would simply adapt. An absolute refusal to be weak. I despise weakness. Never would I become a snivelling wreck, a pathetic heap of hopelessness. I have kept that vow as long as I have lived. Criminals do not have breakdowns. They do not have weaknesses, they must not feel compassion. I cannot feel sympathy. That would be fatal. I would be terrified to feel these things one day, but criminals do not feel fear. That would be catastrophic.

Then, one day Sherlock Holmes came along, and there was a million reasons why I hated him. I hated him because we were so similar. I hated him because he was the same as I was all those years ago, because now he could have a sparkling career, he had so much time to start a family and build up fame and fortune. But most of all I hated him because it never went wrong for him. I wished and waited for it all to come crashing down, and it never did. It was so unfair, and I resented that. He never turned like I did. And I knew he had considered becoming a criminal, but he never did. And I loathed him for it.

Slowly, he became an unbearable irritation. A slow-acting poison inside me. Every time I picked up a copy of the Strand, all I could see was another mystery solved by Mr Holmes, another success story. Not me though, never me. They were all written by that sickeningly loyal puppy dog, the Doctor Watson.

I had to get rid of him. Get him out of my life. He had to be disposed of. And heck, I tried. I followed him for some time, determined to put an end to him. We met several times, and every time we both walked away. It was infuriating, and it was driving me mad.

But now I'm fine. I'm relieved because I can be rid of this troublesome burden – life. Sherlock Holmes may still live on, a star, but he'll be out of my mind. Everything will be out of my mind. There will be no need to think, there will just be nothingness. The thought terrifies most people, but I love it. Just plain, unconfused, nothing. No need to care anymore. Peace.

This is my final stand against life. It's all over, I'm finished here. There's nothing left for me do, there will be no more troubles. I can move on. Thinking about it, just sitting here and waiting, is brilliant.

I, James Moriarty, have less than a minute to live. The clock measured by heartbeats is stopping. I am dying, and I am glad.

-_Ok, um, this is totally AU. But I was wondering what to do for this chapter, and before I knew it I had written this. It's different from usual – the mood from the last chapter has changed quite drastically. Thanks for all the reviews, they're really helping. I'm posting this chapter slightly hesitantly, because I haven't written something like this before. Sorry the last update was so slow, I had to go on holiday. OK, that's not really a bad thing. But oh well. I'm going to start babbling now, so I'd better stop typing._


	8. What Comes Of Curiosity

WHAT COMES OF CURIOSITY

Inspector Lestrade put his hands in his pockets as he pondered the mystery that had arisen. Some gentleman had been found in the middle of the street, dead and severely beaten. There was no clue as to his identity or how he came to meet his fate. It was very unlikely that common thugs would have attacked someone in the middle of a big street like this, even though it was fairly late in the evening.

Scotland Yard had been called to the scene only half an hour ago, not two minutes before Lestrade was planning to retire for the quickly fading day. He was tired and cold (it was November, after all) and he wished he didn't have to be working.

As details of the case were being noted down, he had wandered off from the main crime scene slightly. Occasionally he redirected people away who wanted to pass down the street.

'What happened?' The unexpected voice made Lestrade jump about a foot in the air. He swerved round.

Standing behind him (which unnerved Lestrade, because he hadn't heard anyone approach) was a man in his early twenties. He was tall and lean, and had somewhat unruly black hair. He had a hawk-like nose and intelligent, piercing grey eyes. The Inspector got the strange feeling he was being analysed.

Pulling himself together, Lestrade put on his most helpful air and said 'Oh, nothing for you to worry about, sir. There's a side-street over there if you want to pass-'

'How did the man die?' Lestrade realised the voice was now from behind him. The man had walked straight past him as he pointed out the side-street. Feeling vaguely irritated, he swerved round again. Strangers were now ignoring Inspectors. This was not a good sign. Quickly, he followed the man, who was now peering at the body and shrugging off the surgeon.

Aforementioned surgeon came up to him, looking very much annoyed, 'Inspector, that man just barged in here and now he's inspecting the body! He asked the others what they made of it and called them hopeless after hearing their views!'

'Don't worry, I'll deal with him, Bragstops.'

Lestrade marched over to this intrusive new arrival to the scene, put a hand on the man's shoulder, and began in a commanding tone, 'Sir, if you would please – '

'Oh, do be quiet,' he said, 'I'm trying to think. There is a colossal amount of evidence here, it's fascinating.'

'I really think –'

'Oh, do you really? I thoroughly recommend it,' the man said distractedly, 'Now, really, I'm trying to think. Just like you.'

He walked round the body, leaning in closely, occasionally stopping and making a satisfied noise. The other officers stood nearby, watching him with a slightly baffled air, as if they didn't know what to do about it.

Finally, the strange man stood up, looking content. He stood, lost in thought for a little while more, then suddenly seemed to notice everyone staring him, not all of them entirely happily. Meeting the confused, irritated and shocked faces with a pleasant smile, he took a breath as if he were about to give a speech. Indeed, they would soon find out that was the case.

'Now, you observe that these man's clothes are singularly revealing. Though he is dressed simply and with not many accessories or unnecessary garments, the clothes he does have on are of a high quality and well-made. This means he recently came into some trouble with money, meaning he would have to sell some of his finer clothes.

'His finger shows he used to be engaged. There is lighter skin where the ring would have sat. The skin is lighter, obviously, because he has been abroad. However, the ring is no longer there, suggesting a divorce. We can assume the wife was the wealthier one in the family. The loss of money and divorce were both recent, so we connect the two and assume that when the wife separated from him he had to sell a lot. When we add the fact he has been abroad, we can conclude they were on holiday when something happened that made the wife issue a divorce and caused a quick return to England.

'If they were on holiday, it would mean that they were having a happy marriage before then. Therefore, there must have been an incident causing a sudden separation. We instantly conclude he has cheated.

'With little money and no wife, the man must have despaired for his future. Possibly his family would not want him when he had committed this sin against his partner, and refused to help, or all his family are dead. With no-one to turn to, the man decided to commit suicide. You can smell poison from his mouth, so he poisoned himself.

'However, this does not explain why he is in the middle of the street, bruised and beaten. We immediately determine that the poison was slow-acting, and he stumbled around for some time. He must have taken it outside, possibly that side-street.' He pointed to the alley, and then rushed to it. Looking around a little while, he picked something up and returned.

'Thugs then came across him and presumed he was drunk from the way he was staggering. They checked no-one was here and attacked him. Of course, I shall have to run some tests on how far bruises may be produced after death, for they may have continued. And that is how he came to be in the middle of a street, beaten and dead. His name, 'he added, 'was Samuel Netherington.' And he handed Lestrade a muddy business card. It was what he had picked up in the alley.

For some time there was silence. Eventually, someone coughed, and then there was some more silence. Finally, Lestrade said 'How on earth –'

This seemed to bring everyone out of their startled reverie and they all began talking earnestly.

'Do sit down, Mr, er…'

'That was the most amazing thing I-'

'Have you ever considered joining – '

The man brushed them off and took out a pocket watch. He frowned at it in the darkness and then said, 'I'm sorry, gentlemen, I must be off.' Airily he began ambling off. Lestrade followed him and grabbed his arm.

'What is your name, sir?'

'Oh, have you got a pen?'

Quickly a pen was procured. The man wrote down his name and address, handed them to Inspector Lestrade, and left, whistling into the night.

Lestrade looked at the paper for a good long time, considering what he had just seen. He saw the name, written in elegant handwriting, 'Sherlock Holmes.'

-_Sorry, can't think, I've just found out that Edward Hardwicke lives in the same town as me, and am now going officially insane._


	9. Still Surprised

SURPRISE

Perhaps one of these days Holmes will cease to surprise me. Perhaps there will come a time when I will not be amazed by his deductions, or baffled by his outlandish experiments. Indeed, I suppose I am more used to his oddities than any old person. I would have to be, or my nerves would be more shattered than when I returned from Maiwand.

I've come home to find him in the most bizarre predicaments and situations. Once he was exploding the house, another time sawing the table in half. One time he had half a dozen boys in our living room, another day he was rushing around trying to detonate a bomb in our cellar (he still hasn't explained how it got there). He's been on the roof, dangling from a window or fighting a Samurai. He's been in almost all the unlikely predicaments one can be in.

Yet despite all this, I was still surprised to come home to find Holmes standing in the kitchen with another man. The other man had a gun to Holmes's head. Upon looking up and spotting me, the detective exclaimed 'Ah, Watson! Now, I appear to be in a spot of bother.' He said it quite unconcernedly, as if he were commenting on the weather.

For a considerable length of time I stood there making odd noises and staring from Holmes, to the silent criminal, to the gun, where my gaze lingered. Finally I managed to squeeze one word out, a word that rose above all the other thoughts and half-formed sentences.

'Really,' I said.

'Allow me to enlighten you,' said Holmes, 'What-'

'I think the main situation is not hard to fathom,' I indicated the gun, 'but who is _he_,' I pointed to the stranger, 'and how, I mean, why, that is to say, how, what, why, _what?'_ My confusion burst forth. Holmes gave a sharp bark of laughter. His levity was making the predicament all the more disconcerting.

'Well,' he began, 'you remember the Dawthorpe case? How it ended in Charles Dawthorpe being sentenced to death? Well, allow me to introduce you to his brother, William.'

At last I looked at the intruder properly. He looked to be around thirty. Fair hair sat messily on his head like a giant fur ball and dark green eyes darted furiously from Holmes to me and back. His nose had a flatted look, making his whole face appear as if it had been flattened by a steam train. He was frowning and his hand shook slightly as he held the gun.

'Anyway,' Holmes continued, 'William here decided to come and dispose of me. He came in through the window on the landing, and whilst searching for me entered your room. You may have noticed it is your gun he is holding. Your gun.' He said the last two words in a way that made me think I was missing something. 'Shortly after, he located me in the kitchen and so it is that you find us here.'

'Ah,' I replied, 'so, did –'

'Oh, I don't have time for this!' William Dawthorpe spoke for the first time in my presence. His voice was thin and wiry. 'I came for a reason, not to listen to you two lunatics chat.'

The detective's demeanour changed so suddenly that it startled both of us. The grin was swept off his face and he twisted around suddenly so he was facing the barrel of the gun. His expression was one of anger and dislike. Dawthorpe's eyes widened.

'Indeed you did,' Holmes spat, 'but I don't see you doing anything about it.' The criminal's eyes changed, so they were mere slits. For a minute they were locked together in a gaze of loathing. I didn't know what to do with myself.

'Fine then,' hissed Dawthorpe, 'you want me to do something about it?'

Holmes was in such a passion even I wasn't sure he was acting. This worried me somewhat.

'Please do,' he spat, 'I could do with some amusement.'

'I'm pointing a gun at your head.'

'You scintillate, Mr Dawthorpe.'

'I'm going to shoot you.'

'I doubted you were just pointing that gun for the fun of it.'

'You're going to die.'

Sherlock Holmes stopped and stared at him, then he laughed. He shook his head and laughed a long, mirthless and haunting laugh. Dawthorpe glared at him, evidently trying to hide his confusion. To be honest I couldn't see the humour at the moment either. I hoped Holmes hadn't gone mad.

'Why are you so confident, _detective?_' the criminal snapped, all the time keeping the gun level with his head.

'I could ask you the same question,' replied the detective, 'You are indeed pointing a gun at my head and intending to kill me. But there is just one thing that has escaped your attention.'

'And what would that be? Whatever I have forgotten cannot be of any importance now. Don't think you can talk yourself out of this one, Mr Holmes.'

'That is Watson's gun you are holding. Not yours.' The intruder flashed a lightning quick glance at me. I stood there, feeling useless.

'It is.'

'So how do you know there are bullets in it?' One minute of resounding silence. Desperately, I attempted to remember how much that gun was loaded. There were not many bullets left, I knew that. But how many exactly I did not know.

The cogs were going round in Dawthorpe's head. One could almost see them whirring away like clockwork. How could he prove there were bullets? He couldn't dismantle the gun, Holmes might get away. What if there were no bullets? What then?

Eventually he pointed the gun a mere centimetre above Holmes's head. He did this, he said, so he could shoot if Holmes tried to move. He pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang, like two pieces of metal slammed together. Dawthorpe smiled smugly. 'So much for that theory, Mr Holmes. I think we can safely say the gun is loaded.'

The detective's face was expressionless.

'So, this is it, the great detective comes to an end.'

Still expressionless.

'No last words, Mr Holmes? Last hopeless attempt to get out?'

Silence.

'Well, then. Goodbye.'

I closed my eyes, knowing there was nothing I could do. In horror I waited for the second bang, the colour red to paint the kitchen, the dead detective…. I couldn't think.

It never came. I opened my eyes in confusion. Holmes was still very much alive, to my endless relief, and Dawthorpe was fiddling with the gun with a face of thunder.

'It is a lucky thing, Watson, that there was only one bullet left in your gun.'


	10. Hate, Despair and Hope

London is crying. She is taking herself apart piece by piece until there is nothing left but the tormented emptiness which had crept up every street, every dark alley, slum, palace, garden, shop, factory and home. Slunk into the people, the inky blackness leaving nothing but the hate. And who wants to survive on hate?

The colours have long since melted into the sky and floated away. When the people dream, they see snatches of colour, snatches of long ago, whispers of could-have-beens, but as quickly as they come they flee again, and nothing has changed.

Everyone knows, but no-one says it. Who wants to be the person to declare what is obvious, to make everyone admit that hope has no meaning anymore. Because there is nothing to hope for, because the people don't know how to. Because one of these days the last person will cry for a better life.

Sherlock Holmes is staring out of the window, but he does not see, because he knows he does not want to. He is in the sitting-room at Baker Street, which is much the same as ever at first glance. First glances do not notice the lack of a chemistry experiment bubbling away, or that someone has splashed the bottom of the picture of Reichenbach Falls in red ink. Not even the broken violin is taken in. The syringe, that syringe, is crushed on the table.

There is one piece of paper on the floor, the piece of paper that shows what life was like before now. The last fragment of hope in the big city. Sherlock Holmes looks at it and picks it up. Then he rips it in two and puts the parts in the bin.

Mrs Hudson is crying, because she does not know why she is sad. She sits at a table in the kitchen, and grieves for understanding. As she wonders, just wonders, a glimmer of something flashes through her mind as fast as a steam train, faster. A memory. It edges around her mind, shielding itself from realisation, then creeps back to the impenetrable shadows to start an eternal sleep. It will never return, and Mrs Hudson will never remember.

Dr John Watson is in a pub, but he does not drink – sorrows do not go away now, for there is no better alternative. Usually he'd be at the surgery, but he's closed it. Who wants to get better if it means staying longer in this world? His medical bag is in there, but the contents are thrown across the room carelessly. By his side sits his walking stick, but a different one. He threw the sword in the Thames as uncaringly as if he had thrown a pebble. There is nothing left to fight for.

If he hadn't bought a new jacket he would have found an old betting stub in his pocket. Then he would remember the time when life was about the thrill, the uncertainty, the hope. Hoping, always hoping. Not any more.

Detective Inspector Lestrade sits in his office, thinking. He is nearly out of a job. Murder is everywhere, but the criminals do not even try and avoid detection. They don't want to try because there is no reason to. The relatives of the victim care, but for a very different reason. They envy the victim, because they have been delivered. Not them. Suicide is not an option, because in order to kill yourself you must at least hope that things will be better once the work is done.

Lestrade does not want to go home, because he will see the children. The children that still do not comprehend what is wrong, that don't know that the hope that is born with them will fade away and leave, like with everyone who is born these days. And then the children will be the same as everyone else. The cycle is inevitable.

Irene Adler is in a bare attic. She is trying to smile, but every time she comes close to success the fake happiness on her face cracks up, shattering like a mirror would and the smile is broken. Her beauty is gone now because the excitement, the life is taken out of it. Now her hair is in a plain bun and she wears no make-up.

She does remember an adventure from the past, or glimpses of it at least. A photo – of her and a King. She thinks she burnt it. A detective – one who had nearly out-witted her. Nearly. But she is ashamed of the adventure, and tries her best to forget it like everything else.

James Moriarty is in a slum. He is attempting to find an answer. Whenever he's confused, he feels hatred. Now he's permanently confused, and so the two emotions are entwined in his head. When he feels hatred, he kills. Before, the death was meticulously planned, but now he doesn't care who dies. So he kills any stranger who is lucky enough to walk down the alley where he waits. But then he becomes angrier, because he has just made someone happy and he is even deeper in the abyss.

He does not know what he was before. It wouldn't have made any difference. The fun in murder is gone. No time for games any more.

Mycroft Holmes is alone in his office. He is only there because he does not know where else he could go. The Diogenes Club is closed. Silence can be found anywhere. Parliament does not have much of a use any more. No-one cares about making the country a better place, because no-one thinks it will ever be. There is just a sense of resignment. The old issues are brought up in the House of Lords, but less than half-heartedly, and are always ended in indecision. Everyone can hear the thought to let it be, what did it matter, anything matter any more, echoing around their mind.

Books are no longer published, except factual books for schools. Imagination has long since closed it's curtains.

In some of the most hidden places, there is artwork, surreal and expressionist. Some people stare at these for a long time, trying to fathom their meaning, to be able to feel the same. They never manage.

All the theatres are closed, and entertainment is a faintly understood concept, if just very faintly. These days all one does is be born, live, die, and is forgotten.

This is the London people loved, this is the world without adventure, this is the world without hope.

'_Dead, your Majesty .Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.'_ Charles Dickens, Bleak House.

XXX

_Right, this was written in a slightly odd way. I sat down in front of the computer and thought 'Just write without planning or thinking, except to keep it Sherlock Holmesy.' And voila! Sorry about the lateness of the update – been busy with stuff and went on an angstory mood. Reviews are all greatly appreciated._

_Anyway, here's the real news: I got a letter from Edward Hardwicke! I know! It was awesome. Right, for fear of rambling on for pages, I'd better stop here._


	11. Dissappointing

DISSAPOINTING DAY

'Come on William, wake up, it's our birthday!' John yelled excitedly towards the next bed. His sibling groaned and shifted slightly. He cracked an eye open at the noise. Sunlight was shuffling through the window hesitantly and the world in general looked uncertainly happy.

'What?' he slurred.

'Wake up!'

'Why?'

'It's our _birthday. _We're twelve!'

'Oh joy. One year closer to death.' And with that, William rolled over again, wrapping himself in the blankets like a cocoon, and closed his eyes again. John looked at him speculatively and then abruptly leapt over to the bed and began prodding his brother.

Annoyed, William swatted his hand away but his sibling refused to give him. 'John, I'll be up! Not now! No-one would think you were twelve, acting so immature.'

'Oh, come on, don't be so gloomy,' John swept William's blanket off the bed in one neat motion, exposing his brother's lying body. He sat up quickly, his dark hair messy, and glared.

'John! Stop it! I _said _I'd come down! You're so impatient and immature! Leave me _alone!'_ Usually, John would have ignored an outburst like that, but it was impossible not to notice the real venom with which the words were spoken, or the ice freezing his eyes.

The happy young boy stopped, looking surprised. Slowly, the smile slithered off his face and merged into the sun. William's expression of anger mixed with guilt for a moment, but that soon faded when speaking started again. Or perhaps it was just hiding.

'Will, you don't mean –'

'I do. Go away.'

'But, it was only a –'

'Go _away, _I said.'

'But it's our birthday…'

William leant forwards and hit his brother across the face before storming out the room like a bubbling volcano.

John watched him leave with a hand to his cheek. What should he do? Should he go after his brother and apologise? Apologise for what exactly? Being happy? Anger stirred inside him too. It wasn't his fault, he did nothing wrong! William was the one who should apologise. He _hit _him!

As these thoughts washed around his head, he felt increasingly angry and decided he could enjoy his birthday without his brother. Going over to his wardrobe, he tore out some clothes and put them on. Then he went to the door, stopping only briefly, before going out and down the stairs defiantly. He could have fun _without _his brother.

Downstairs, his parents were at the breakfast table. His mother, a happy woman who bustled around constantly, was pouring tea for his father, who was immersed in the newspaper. He thanked her quietly. On the table two identical meals were laid out. The Birthday Special, it was called.

John coughed with a certain amount of pride as it struck him again that he was twelve. Properly big now.

Mrs Watson looked up and beamed as she spotted him in the doorway. 'Good morning, John! And, happy birthday!'

'Hello,' he replied serenely, and set himself down at his place at the table. Slowly, his father looked up, lost in thought, and stared at his son for some seconds without really seeing him, before his expression cleared and he said 'Oh, hello John! Wow, you're big now! Twelve! Never thought I'd see the day.'

'Good morning,' he said. Outside, he could see the mailman walk past the window and soon enough he heard letters tumble through the door.

'Ah! I'll just go and get that,' His mother said. She bustled away, and his father suddenly asked 'Where's William?'

John looked down and answered quietly, 'He… he should be down soon.'

However, Mr Watson did not see his downcast expression, and grunted before complaining about the state of the wool trade at the minute. The young boy knew he was not expected to listen, but it still happened every morning.

Mrs Watson came back with a few envelopes in her hand. 'Boring, boring, card from Auntie, boring, card, card, and this one's for you, David.'

The man opened his letter semi-interestedly, skimmed it over, then stopped and read it again. He frowned. 'Oh, bother! I'm sorry, I have to go. Accident down at the docks I need to sort out. I'm afraid I won't be back until late. So sorry to spoil your special day.'

For the second time that day, John felt disappointed, but he was patient and didn't show it. 'That's all right.'

Hurriedly, his father left the room, grabbed his coat and hat, and shut the front door just as William appeared downstairs. John looked at him uncertainly, but he did not make eye contact.

'William! Happy Birthday! Come, sit down before your breakfast gets cold!' his mother exclaimed. William nodded and sat down, keeping as far away from John as he could.

When they had finished, he immediately said 'Can we open presents now?'

'Of course. They're in the sitting room, as always.'

In they went, and for the first time the two brothers did not talk to each other as they opened their own gifts. Mrs Watson looked at them curiously, before sitting down on a chair to watch them.

John got a notebook from his father and a toy medical kit from his mother. He regarded them with delight, all thoughts of the recent episode with William swept from his mind.

'Do you like them?' asked his mother.

'They're brilliant. Thank you.'

William had got toy boat and book on animals. He looked at them for a long time, and then at John's presents.

'Do you like your presents, William?' his mother said.

'They're… they're all right.'

'What's wrong with them?'

'Nothing! Nothing.'

'No, what is it, darling?'

'Nothing, I said! Never mind, let's move on.'

Mrs Watson frowned at his tone of voice, but let it pass. John knew what had happened. William was jealous. Now, he was almost embarrassed to give his brother the present from him.

Slowly, he removed a small present wrapped messily in brown paper and tied with string. 'Here, Will, this is… this is for you.'

William looked at it expressionlessly, then glared for a split-second before grabbing it and ripping it open violently. Inside was a shabby homemade pirate toy. John had spent hours fumbling with the needle and thread, doing it and redoing it until he was satisfied. But now, in the morning light, it looked pathetic and ready to fall apart.

Their mother prompted 'Well, say thank you, William.'

'Err… thank you.' He immediately put the toy down behind him. John felt tears of shame and disappointment well up inside him, but he wasn't quite sure why he'd had such a strong reaction to this.

'Well,' piped up their mother again, 'Why don't you give John your present to him?'

There was a long silence where William looked down, away from everyone else's gaze. Finally, he admitted 'I… I didn't get anything.'

Awkward silence filled the room like water fills a jar. John was surprised - they had always given each other something, every year since they were three.

Suddenly, William jumped up, wrapping paper falling from his lap, and his face was the same as it was earlier that morning, 'Look, I know you're all disappointed with me! I can't do anything right, can I? But not John. John's so _perfect, _you all love him, not me! Why should you? Everyone hates me! And I hate you! I wish you were both dead! I hate you I hate you I hate you!'

He ran out of the room and slammed the door hard, effectively shutting out his past self. Things would only go downhill from there.

-_Ok, I am BACK! Sorry about the growing delay between updates, it's just so busy now school has started again! Thanks again for all your reviews! Oh, and I promise next chapter will be something more upbeat._


	12. Enthusiasm: For Science

'Holmes.'

'Shhh.'

'Holmes.'

'Wait.'

'Holmes.'

'Be patient, Watson!'

'Holmes.'

'All right, Watson, what is it?'

'Why is there a dead snake on the sofa?'

'Is it dead? Bother.'

'Yes, it's dead, look…. Argh!...Ok… it may not be as dead as one might hope.'

'Oh. Good.'

'So, rephrasing the original question, why is there a live snake on the sofa?'

'Oh, well, I didn't think Mrs Hudson would be too pleased if I put it in the kitchen or on a table.'

'No, I mean, _why _is there a live snake?'

'Don't worry, it's a colubrid. Less venomous than viperids or elapids. It's called a Boiga snake. Fascinating creatures.'

'Holmes.'

'Sometimes they're known as cat-eye snakes.'

'Really?'

'Yes. They are interesting.'

'Oh, you shall have to tell me more about –_Holmes, answer the damn question!'_

'Experiment.'

'Might I ask of what?'

'I'm testing the effects of being bitten by a mildly venomous snake.'

'Ah.'

'Quite.'

'Indeed.'

'Ah, that reminds me. Watson, you wouldn't be interested in helping an experiment of mine –'

'No.'

'Don't worry, most people –'

'No.'

'Fine. How inconveniencing of you, Watson. All right then, I shall have to be bitten myself. It will not be too dangerous.'

'No, Holmes, are you insane? You're going to let that snake attack you?'

'Oh, don't worry, it is only mildly venomous.'

'No, I absolutely forbid it. It's a ridiculous idea.'

'Oh, come now, Watson.'

'No. How would you get the snake to stop attacking you, for a start? Don't you "mildly venomous" me, Holmes, it's a hare-brained scheme.'

'How unsporting of you, Watson.'

'Never mind that. Now, how are we going to get rid of that snake?'

'Do we have to get rid of it? I can think of several uses for it-'

'Absolutely not. It is not staying in this house.'

'But the lengths I went to get it…'

'Are irrelevant. Hang on, out of curiosity, how _did _you get it?'

'Well, I believe I have mentioned bumping into a snake charmer in the past-'

'You know what, I get the feeling I do not want to know how you acquired it.'

'All right then.'

'Coming back to the question of how we are getting rid of it.'

'Must we keep calling it, 'it'? I thought the snake looked rather like an Albert sort of chap.'

'Albert…'

'Yes.'

'Right. Anyway… '

'Oh, not to worry, Watson. I have a box which can easily fit a snake. I have seen the art of taming a snake before in Asia. Where did I put the poker…'

'By the fire?'

'No, no… I know! It is wrapped in a tablecloth in my wardrobe.'

'You are insane.'

'Sorry?... oh, well, has been said many times before.'

'Should I be surprised?'

'Right, here is the poker… and here is the box. Don't trouble yourself, Watson, I'll get it in.'

'The humour is not appreciated.'

'Well, you are attempting to blend in the wallpaper at the end of the room. Come, it is sedated, it won't bite.'

'The view is good from here, thank you.'

'Very well. Now… if I just get that… and edge that round…. And then place it…. Exactly.'

'Is it safely in?'

'The box will not open, Watson.'

'Good. I say, what are you going to do with it now?'

'As a matter of fact, I know this group who are particularly keen to raise their number of exotic animals, and if I could find the beard for the sailor outfit I could – '

'Really, no more information needed.'

'Well, now that's over and done with. I still do not understand what the problem was with having a snake in the sitting-room.'

'I do.'

'Well, never mind. Even so, it would not have hurt us in here because these snakes attack mostly when the victim is asleep.'

'Holmes…'

'Oh, speaking of which, do be careful in your room, one slithered off in there and I believe that it may be in your bed. Do let me know when you find it. Right, I'll go and return this one. Goodbye, Watson!'


	13. Boredom Has Casualties

'Well Doctor, what memoir are you floridly romanticising now?' Sherlock Holmes returned his pipe to his mouth and looked at the fire before turning to me. He was in a state of utter laziness – jacket off, leaning back in the armchair.

I sighed and put the pen down briefly. 'I thought I'd write up the case of the giant rat of Sumatra.'

It was a cold winter's day and the bite of the wind had pushed everyone in the street to the side and into their houses several days ago. Holmes was at first horrified at the lack of criminal activity due to this weather, then swiftly moved on to become terribly, terribly bored. He had several times threatened to blow up the house altogether or take it upon himself to make sure there was some crime. The extent of his listlessness was such that I caught him replacing the sugar with white sawdust, and later with poison.

The detective tapped his knee, and then proclaimed 'It's a good thing you told me, I daresay I wouldn't recognise which case it was with all the ridiculous romantics you heap on top.'

I was stung, but tried not to take it to heart because I knew that Holmes was simply looking for something to do, regardless of the consequences.

'Perhaps, Holmes,' I said, 'You would care to do yourself if I am so incapable of the task.'

He raised one eyebrow. 'Hardly. The public could never appreciate the deductions I would explain.'

'Then why do you complain that I leave the deductions out?'

'Because they are the whole basis for my reasoning! If I wrote the stories, I would leave out all the unnecessary fantasy and focus on the science. You leave out the science and focus on the unnecessary fantasy. What do you have when you take away the roots of something ? – twaddle.'

'Holmes, it's what the public wants. And to be honest, I think you are rather quick to attack writing. The most famous writers are famous because of their, as you put it, unnecessary fantasy and twaddle.'

He waved a hand languidly in the air. 'Writers,' he said in a tone of disinterest and somewhat patronisingly.

'Dammit, have you _nothing _to do but insult me?' My patience burned down a little more. He got up from the chair and began to pace, looking out of the window several times. Finally he turned to me with a smile. 'Watson, have a little patience.'

'Believe me, I am trying, but a saint would be tried by your constant belittling.'

'Well, really, Watson.'

'Holmes! Just be quiet!'

I turned back to my writing, but found it exceedingly difficult to concentrate due to Holmes wandering around the room behind me. Clink. I could hear him fiddling with the science equipment, but just as I hoped he would settle down, he dropped it.

Rustle. The newspapers. Discarded.

Screeeeeeeeeech. The violin. At this point I had to turn around, but just as I was about to berate Holmes, he dropped the violin and leant against the wall, sliding to the ground. He looked up and met my eyes.

'You do not know, Watson, the utter state of tedium I am in now. Nothing appeals. Death must be more stimulating at present. My mind –'

'Rebels at stagnation, yes, I know. Well, if I can entertain myself, you should be able to too. You are not a child, though you certainly act like one.'

'So little sympathy, Doctor?'

'Yes. Stop being so melodramatic.'

'Huh! I would have expected a true friend to understand.'

I stopped, wondering if he knew what he had just said. I had the most horrible suspicion he did.

'You mean to say, I am not a true friend?' Holmes looked suddenly like a schoolboy cornered by his teacher. He sighed and looked at the ceiling.

'Every man is an island,' he changed the quote. I was hurt. He was trying to tell me he didn't consider me a true friend?

'Holmes, the stories I write have increased your work amount. More people come to see you because of my "twaddle."'

'Come to see me about lost cats,' he muttered, 'who's to say that my workload wouldn't have gone up even without the exaggerated publicity?'

I was bordering on outraged. Did he really think I was that pointless?

'Well, I'm glad to know how much I really mean to you!' I cried. He watched me.

'Come now, Watson, you are overreacting.'

'Overreacting! Do people normally allow you to insult them freely?'

The next words I barely caught, they slipped through my fingers so quietly. 'You do.'

'You are so ungrateful, Holmes! I know perfectly well what the state you would most likely be in if I had not come along. You are incapable of looking after yourself.'

'What state might that be?' He seemed almost amused.

My mean, dark streak took this opportunity to veil the normal kindness and loyalty. 'Barely enough money to live on. Or in a permanent cocaine-induced stupor! Certainly not here!'

At long last he stood up, allowing some anger to slip out from under the mask. 'I am disappointed that you think me so incapable! Anyway, I daresay you would not be in a much better situation yourself! Why, where had you to go when you arrived back from Afghanistan? If you had not met me who knows where you'd be? Wasting away your money on gambling, perhaps?'

The audacity! He was suggesting that it was in fact me that was ungrateful!

'It seems, Holmes, you were not the man I thought you were.' He sneered.

'Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Did I not meet your expectations? Do I care?'

'A friend would.'

And at this, I went downstairs, got my coat, and marched out into the winter air, ignoring the protests from my leg.

-_OK, I kinda wrote this chapter because I thought I should update the story, not because of careful planning. I'm not happy with this chapter and think I could have done much better, but I don't have time. So. _


	14. Boredom: Part 2

Holmes waited for a moment after the door had slammed, then got up. He sighed. Outside, rain began to drip from the clouds and the night drew nearer.

For a minute he paced around the room, and stopped when he reached a mirror. He looked at himself, dishevelled, tired, and looked away. Then he reached for his jacket and went down the stairs.

'Mrs Hudson! I'm going out!'

Holmes hung his jacket on the coat stand and left the house, stepping into the rain that was becoming heavier and heavier.

He was sick. Sick of the world, sick of being polite, sick of himself. Life was overrated. Or at least, his life was. _World's first consulting detective, _he thought bitterly, _or world's biggest fool. _

He barely noticed the darkness that grew as the rain did too, in the crippling cold.

Now what was he supposed to do? Find Watson? No…. yes…. He didn't know. For now he'd just keep walking.

XXX

Watson groaned as rain started to fall as he marched away from Baker Street. At least he'd thought to take a coat.

He was still angry from the exchange with Holmes. The insolence of that man! He was still a child. An immature child. Sometimes he hated him, he really did.

Watson wondered when he should return. He wanted Holmes to think about what he'd said and apologise for once, but it was quite cold, it being December, and the rain was getting heavier. It was also later than he had supposed, and darkness was piling up quick thickly on the streets of London.

Perhaps he had overreacted? Oh, here it came, the inevitable guilt trip. No, he refused to feel guilty, Holmes had brought the argument on himself, it was his fault. He started it.

Childish.

_'What state might that be?'_

_'Barely enough money to live on. Or in a permanent cocaine-induced stupor! Certainly not here!'_

Good Lord, had he really said that? What had he been thinking? No, he was feeling guilty again.

_'Overreacting! Do people normally allow you to insult them freely?'_

'_You do.' _

Yes, it was Holmes who was in the wrong. He just didn't know when to stop. Ridiculous man.

'_Every man is an island.'_

XXX

He was always doing something wrong, wasn't he? Couldn't get it right. Couldn't ever say what he thought.

XXX

He was just trying to be a friend. He couldn't help it if he was ungrateful about it. He should learn some respect.

XXX

Could everyone just stop getting angry at him? All the time, the insults came. Rude, ungrateful, immature, incapable.

XXX

That man couldn't just go on doing what he wanted, he needed to learn some respect. The things he let him do…

XXX

Were they true? What people said? Was he such a bad person? Perhaps… he was… yes. He thought about it. When was the last time he took someone's advice? Thanked a friend? Oh god, he was terrible. He was a terrible person and didn't deserve any friends.

XXX

Maybe he was a bit harsh. It had been difficult for him, cooped up at home. Had he overreacted? He had been a little quick to attack, hadn't he? Perhaps they were both slightly to blame…

XXX

'Hello, sir.'

'Oh, hello. Who might you be?'

'Beggin' your pardon, sir, I'm Anthony Rod, and I was wonderin', are you Mr Sherlock 'Olmes?'

'I am.'

'Well, I 'eard that you knew a Dr John Watson.'

'Yes, what of it?'

'Just thought 'e should know that 'e is the most 'orrible man I have ever 'ad the misfortune to meet, and I 'ope he rots in 'ell.'

'I'm sorry?

'You 'eard.'

'Look, I don't know how you know Dr Watson, but I know he's one of the best men I've ever met in my life. You've no right to say what you did.'

'So you won't give 'im the message from me?'

'No, I will not.'

'In that case, me and my friends are going to 'ave to give 'im a little present.'

'What are you insinuating?'

'You can come out, lads.'

XXX

As Watson turned a corner he heard a yell and several thumps, some hissed insults and a ripple of filthy laughter. He stopped for some moments, wondering whether he should see if he could help, or leave them. Immediately he dispelled the latter and tried to locate the source of the noise.

He waited as there was a second of silence before another strangled yell ripped through the air and he quickly tracked it to a dark little alley, where he gasped at what he saw.

A burly bulging man and two other rather horrible-looking thugs were pinning a man against the damp wall – he couldn't see his face, it was hidden in shadow – and beating him rather enthusiastically.

Watson watched in horror as they threw the man to the ground and kicked him several times before leaning down and saying sharply 'Maybe now 'e'll get the message, eh?' and leaving, exiting the other end of the alley.

He frowned slightly. The tone was familiar. Well, no matter, there was an injured man! He hurried down towards the man who was gingerly attempting to pick himself up.

'Don't worry, I'm a doctor. That was a nasty attack. Please, don't try and get up.'

I squinted through the darkness to try and see my patient, but I didn't recognise him until he spoke.

'Just… just what _did _you do – to… to Anthony Rod?'

'_Holmes?'_

'One and only.'

'What did you do?'

I tried to see in the night to evaluate my friend's situation. His hair was even more messy, and there were a couple of nasty-looking bruises on his face, undoubtedly more elsewhere. He was only wearing a shirt on his top half, and was consequently shivering quite badly. He opened his mouth to answer my question, but I cut him off.

'Never mind, tell me on the way back to Baker Street.'

XXX

'Anthony Rod?'

'Yes.'

'Let me think…. Oh yes! A long time ago I came to his house when his two daughters both were in the grips of a terrible fever. I did what I could but it was too much for the young girls and they both died.'

'How awful.'

'Yes. I had no idea he had born this feeling of revenge against me.'

'Actually, he, um… he only beat me up because… because I refused to, err, pass on a message.'

'A message?'

'That you were the most horrible person he'd ever met, and, err, the like.'

'You refused?'

'I, err, told him he had no right to say what he did.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, well, anyway…'

'Holmes?'

'Yes?'

'Thank you.'

'Um…'

'We were both idiotic earlier, I didn't mean what I said, and you are a good friend.'

'I know.'

'Holmes!'

'Sorry, I mean, I'm sorry too. I was being immature.'

'Well, now that's over and done with…'

'I'm going to ask Mrs Hudson for scones.'

'…'

_-A/N Right, I am SO SORRY for the ridiculously long delay. I was stopped by writer's block, my computer going to hospital for a fortnight, and a load of other stuff. But I am VERY SORRY I took so long. I'll try and bring my updating speed back to a week at least. I don't know what to make of this chapter, I didn't know how to bring the two boys back together again, so this might be a bit cliché. Anyhow, thanks lots and lots for all the reviews! I'll try and reply to them when I can. _


	15. Melancholy

After the storm, there comes a soft lull where everything settles, placid and resting. Everything is in a docile shade of grey, the aftermath of chaos being nothing. That is how it is. There comes the moment, and the rest is silence.

We lock the door and leave nothing, because we have nothing to take. The sky sighs and shuts its eyes, shuts out the world.

There's a chill burning through the air, and it coats us, so we need no overcoats.

Everything is closed. Every door, every window has a shield of darkened light that glares at us from its lifted location. There's a foreboding that tangles up everyone's minds, and we can't unravel it.

We walk down the stone steps, and the sound is minimal but padlocked into the street. The shadows of footprints are laid on the street, and we attach them to our shoes.

Silence is shouting in every ear, and it slides past proudly, before scuttling down a side-alley and disappearing. After that, we don't talk. There is nothing to be said yet.

This is a small corridor, a street. Here we are, trapped in this column between stone and the sky.

In the audience of our life, sit our memories and they watch interestedly, their recollections brought down to a whisper in the present.

Living, in our opinion, is not optional. We had no say in the matter. Even if we complained, life would still burn through our veins, red with fire. Life would still stab us from the inside, a constant beat in our chests. Life would still slam into our lungs so they expanded.

The air is rushing by; we can feel it trying to drag us forward. Can wind run out, leaving a wall with no air. Is it following the wind now, coming ever closer? Perhaps all we need to do to die is wait.

But we're not dying.

There's a road stretching forward, breaking into pieces and branching out, pushing between houses and fields. It covers everywhere for countless miles, like a rope tying the world together.

And it's waiting.

We stand at the edge of a journey, waiting for the last time.

'Now?' I ask.

'Yes,' he replies, 'Let's go now.'

And we start to walk.

-_OK guys, I don't know if that made a lot of sense. But you know, I didn't know what to do for this chapter, so I opened Spotify and used the first song it played on Shuffle for inspiration. This turned out to be 'Sweet Chariot' by Charlotte Martin, which you should listen to. Also, I don't know why it's a drabble. It just is. HEY. Spotify just started playing the Sherlock Holmes (2009) theme tune. Excellent. _

_Thanks loads for all the reviews of last chapter! Right, I'll be quiet now. _


	16. Obliviousness

Watson and Holmes were talking over a good meal in Simpson's Restaurant. It was to celebrate the end of a long and arduous case which had dragged them all the way to Norfolk and back. They were both in a very good mood and Watson was recounting a ridiculous tale which he didn't realise he'd told various times before.

'And so I told her,' he spluttered slightly, choking back laughter, 'that a three-barrelled musket peered into the tent and I shot a baby tiger at it!' He began laughing.

Sherlock Holmes smiled at the sight of his slightly tipsy friend laughing uproariously at the not-terribly-funny joke.

Watson seemed to realise that he was making a great deal of noise, and composed himself. Holmes gave a bark of laughter.

In front of them a couple of men came in through the door, and settled themselves on the table next to them. One was a stout white man who looked cheerful and seemed to be debating who would pay. Holmes gathered that he was an engineer, judging by the faded oil marks on his hands, 34, had two siblings, came from a rich family but preferred to pave his own path.

The other was a black man, slightly taller, with defined features and a laid-back atmosphere. He was 35, a butler, immigrated a while ago but proud of his home country.

Holmes noticed that the nearest waiter seemed to be purposely ignoring the duo. How odd. He wondered why.

Finally a different waiter went over to them and took their orders.

'Watson, observe those-'

'Holmes, tonight I will not observe,' his companion grinned, 'normally people don't. Come on, don't deduce, let's talk about something.'

Later that evening they were finishing dessert, when the couple in front finished telling some joke or another. They laughed, and the black one leaned close to the other, as if to tell him some secret. Instead, the other turned his head and swiftly, they kissed.

Straight away they glanced around somewhat warily, before relaxing.

Watson cleared his throat in surprise, looking away.

'I say, Holmes…' he muttered.

'Yes?'

'Well, did you not just see that?'

'See what, Watson?'

'You know, those two. They just…kissed!'

'I am not blind, Boswell.'

'But I mean to say: in public! And they're two men. Of different races.'

'You scintillate, Watson. But what is the point you are trying to make?'

'Well, that is my point.'

'What is?'

'Come on, Holmes. It's just not quite- right. You know what I mean.'

Holmes frowned. What on earth was Watson drivelling on about?

'There's nothing wrong with black people, Watson. Their skin is superior, anyway.'

'That's not what I meant!' he sputtered awkwardly, 'You know perfectly well I don't think there's anything wrong with black people.'

'Then what in heaven's name are you trying to say?'

'They're two men! They shouldn't be in a relationship.'

'We are two men, we have a relationship.'

'Holmes. Please. Don't say that. I mean, yes, but not in that way.'

'What way?'

'Romantically – they kissed!'

'Yes, well observed.'

'But isn't that, _illegal _or some such? It's not… it's not natural.'

'Why ever not?'

'You know why. We are not having this conversation.'

'Love is love. I don't see why the gender matters. One person falls in love with another person. They can't help it if that person happens to be off the same gender. So, on the contrary, Watson, it is perfectly natural to fall in love.'

'That was deep, coming from you, the man who plans never to fall in love.'

'I say it is natural, I did not say it was necessary.'

'Holmes, let's not have that conversation either.'

'But you see what I mean, don't you? Do you really disagree with homosexuality, or are you just shocked because it is unusual, Watson?'

'Oh, I… don't know. I suppose I don't disagree. It's just odd.'

'I thought so. The law is not always right. Scotland Yard are hardly ever right, after all.'

'Holmes.'

'I think that times will change. We must think of the future, Boswell. I daresay there's a more tolerant world ahead.'

The waiter came over.

'Would you like the bill, sirs?'

'Yes, please.'

'Right away.'

Watson and Holmes looked at each other. Who was actually going to pay?

'Do you know, I do believe I left my wallet at –'

'Holmes, no you didn't. Honestly. Now, cough up, let's split the cost.'

'Fine.'


	17. Insanity

'So tell me, Doctor, what's your proclamation? Am I mortally ill?'

'No, just absolutely insane.'

'Insane?'

'Absolutely.'

'Is that so much of a bad thing?'

'I should think so.'

'Well, insanity is an abstract concept...'

'Is it.'

'It is.'

'Right.'

'It could be the morbid insanity full of revenge…'

'As opposed to the happy insanity with little rabbits?'

'Quite. To be or not to be, that is the question….'

'I should hope not.'

'…Whether it be nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…'

'Outrageous fortune indeed.'

'…Or to take arms against a sea of troubles….'

'Are you quite finished?'

'…and by opposing end them.'

'Now?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Now, I'm surprised. What have you got to say for yourself?'

'I have _nothing _to declare except my genius.'

'Really.'

'Oh yes.'

'Out of curiosity, how much _did _you have to drink?'

'A drinkable amount, don't you know.'

'Brilliant.'

'Nice of you to say so.'

'Not you!'

'Why, I'm hurt.'

'How will I forgive myself.'

'I don't know, I just don't know. All those dreams ruined, my mind broken by jealous insults...'

'I think you're too full of yourself to care what people say.'

'Perhaps.'

'Definitely.'

'How boring.'

'You can't be bored, you're drunk.'

'I am bored.'

'Why are you drunk anyway?'

'Irrelevant.'

'I don't really think it is irrelevant to know why there's a detective sprawled under the coat rack, completely drunk.'

'Sozzled.'

'Quite.'

'Absolutely sloshed.'

'This is going to be a long night.'

'Do you know why peregrines run in circles?'

'They don't.'

'Why, you do have a brain after all. Minx.'

'Did you just call me a minx?'

'A minx?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'Someone have mercy on me.'

'Why? Is something wrong?'

'Oh, nothing.'

'I know, did you find the dissected pigeon in the cellar?'

'There's a dissected pigeon in the cellar?'

'No.'

'You just said – '

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

'Well, that clears that up.'

'Minx.'

'_Why_ are you calling me a minx?

'A minx?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'Nowhere!'

'You don't think you're a minx, do you?'

'No!'

'Because I hate to be the one to break it to you, but…'

'I am not a minx!'

'Oh, I'm so glad you've seen reason.'

'Oh, I give up.'

-A/N _Don't ask. I open the dictionary, see the word 'minx' and that's what happened. Thanks for the reviews for last chapter, they're awesome!_ _Now, I know insanity isn't an emotion but it sprang to mind. _


	18. Woe

Sherlock Holmes hurried past dressing rooms of girls coated in make-up and boys revising their lines or quickly making a dress change before they were due on stage again. He hurried past directors dealing with broken lamps and missing headgear. He hurried past rooms full of costumes and random props. Everyone was furious muttering as people rushed to their places for the next scene.

The criminal was somewhere here, he knew it. He'd seem him just a minute ago! Where was he? Holmes span round, hoping to catch a glance.

There was a sudden scream and he span round again, trying to locate it. What had he done, what had happened?

Suddenly he saw an entrance with bright lights and immediately rushed out onto a large platform. Various people were stood there, but no criminal. He sighed.

'What was that scream?' he asked.

Everyone seemed to be staring at him out of the corner of their eyes with carefully fixed expressions. Had he interrupted something?

Quickly, he turned to leave when he suddenly found himself facing a thousand surprised audience members sat down in their seats staring at the stage.

Bother.

Well, it seemed he must seem to be part of the play now. But what play were they _doing? _Holmes looked around for a clue but found nothing.

Suddenly, a man announced 'The queen, my lord, is dead.'

The Queen was dead? Why was he being called 'my lord'?

_Oh. _Macbeth. Of course. It all made sense now: The Scottish play. Holmes relaxed. He was going to enjoy this.

He put on a stricken face and fell into character. His memory rushed to bring back Macbeth's speech.

'She should have died hereafter,' he choked, wondering how on earth he could keep this up.

'There would have a been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this, err, petty pace from day to day…..To the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have...lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out… brief candle!'

Damn. What on earth was supposed to come next? He took a dramatic breath, pretending it was a theatrical silence, not a memory blank.

The silence stretched on. One actor began to say something, but Holmes suddenly remembered the rest.

'Shh I'm not finished!'

Now everybody looked stricken.

'Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.'

There was a deafening silence as he finished. As he twiddled his thumbs, he spotted movement in the other wing. The criminal!

At once Holmes rushed off the stage in pursuit, letting the actors finish their play.

XXX

Holmes sat in his chair with his pipe next to the fire. What a day, what a day.

He heard the front door close and footsteps come up the stairs. Watson was back, it seemed. Ah good. He'd been out all evening – to see some concert or some such.

Watson came through the door.

'Hello.'

'Hello.'

He took off his jacket and picked up a book before coming to settle down in the other seat.

'Did you have a good time?'

'Yes, I did.'

'What was it you went to listen to?'

'Not a concert. A play.'

'Oh, I see.'

'Macbeth.'

'Oh.'

'Yes.'

'It was remarkably good, apart from the odd moment that my colleague walked onto the stage, recited a speech, and ran off it like the hounds of hell were chasing him.'

'I see. How nice.'

'Holmes.'

'I've been hunting down a-'

'Holmes! Why on earth were you on stage?'

'When?'

'Don't play innocent.'

'I was chasing a criminal. I didn't mean to be on stage. The play was in my way.'

'The _play _was an _obstruction?'_

'Yes. Anyway, I performed the part rather well, I think, considering I never knew I would be acting Macbeth.'

'How on earth do you know that speech?'

'I'm not oblivious to the world of theatre, Watson. Indeed, once people urged me to take up a career in acting.'

'I'm not surprised, considering how you manage to fool us with your disguises.'

'Why thank you.'

'You never cease to amaze me, you know.'

'I know.'

-_Hello, me again! Sorry this chapter is so short but I am in something of a hurry and I have limited time to write everything I want to now. The next chapter will be all dialogue seeing as the last one got such a good reception. Thank you for all the reviews, they're awesome!_


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